Insofar as poetry has a social function it is to awaken sleepers by other means than shock.
The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.
I'll dig in into my days, having come here to live, not to visit. Grey is the price of neighboring with eagles, of knowing a mountain's vast presence, seen or unseen.
Marvelous Truth, confront us at every turn, in every guise.
It is fatal to one's artistic life to talk about something that is in process.
Mediocrity is perhaps due not so much to lack of imagination as to lack of faith in the imagination, lack of the capacity for this abandon.